From A Shattered Glass House

They always say that people who live in glass houses shouldn't throw stones. So I've never thrown anything harder than balled up socks.

All my rage and anger buried inside of me, festering. I shoved it down, let it smolder.

Only able to appear in gentle lobs against the clear walls or screams contained by soft pillows in case the pitch of my misery shook the glass from the frames.

I set down my stones because, no matter what, I needed a home. Even one made of glass.

Until I realized I was under your roof- not mine. It was your glass house I was trapped in.

Suddenly the sound of shattering was beautiful. I found rocks, boulders, ice picks, baseball bats, tire irons.

My hands were raw with the strain and my feet bloodied, sliced from walking over the splintered ruins. The pain made it real.

I never liked that house anyway. And I was glad to see it gone.

A wave of air hit me from a hole where a window used to be. My first contact with the outside world-outside of you. Outside of our poorly kept lies and badly hidden secrets.

I thought it would feel better than it did. I imagined fresh air mixed with sunlight. The promise of freedom and a new beginning.

But it was cold and harsh as it whistled through the panes. Swiftly, it reminded me that the house was only glass. That everyone could see through the entire time.

They saw what you did to me-to us. They saw the agony. They heard our tears. After all, glass is only glass. What was I expecting?

I hit the ground, heedless of the crunch beneath me. The remains of the shattered illusion. I guess that's the point of glass houses, right?

Somewhere along the way, I forgot the only one falling for it was me.

But just like broken homes, you can't put glass houses back together. Now, all I have is all these stones of anger and nowhere to throw them.